


Climbing the Walls

by robocryptid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Relationships, Background Spiderbyte, Domestic, Fluff and Humor, M/M, POV Alternating, background Reaper76 - Freeform, social distancing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24257242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid
Summary: Hanzo and Jesse are neighbors who have never met until social distancing forces them to stay in their homes. Neither can see the other's face, but that doesn't stop them from getting to know each other.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 78
Kudos: 413





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ventiskull](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ventiskull/gifts).



> Inspired by and based on [this tweet thread](https://twitter.com/ventiskull/status/1255305942767480832?s=20) by [ventiskull](https://twitter.com/ventiskull). I took a couple liberties, but that's it, that's the fic!
> 
> !!NOTE: This is absolutely a COVID-19 quarantine fic. I know this may be exactly the kind of "turning the scary stuff into something fun and light" that some people are looking for, but for others it may hit too close to home. If you're one of the latter, a warning before you proceed: the social distancing works as a backdrop for the fic. There are no discussions of the actual virus or any of the very serious specifics, but there are still references to cleaning, wearing masks, avoiding contact, etc. If that's too close for you, this may not be the fic for you. Take care of yourselves and each other. <3

### #

### Week 1

The first thing Hanzo does in isolation is clean his apartment from top to bottom. He bleaches every surface that can handle it. He wipes down the walls. He washes the baseboards. He scrubs each of the slats in the vents. It takes a full day, and he has probably singed his nose hairs from all the chemicals, but it is satisfying. This is his way of accepting that he can no longer use the cleaning company he hires to come by weekly. 

Previously he also paid them to check on his plants while he traveled for work. Now he will have to learn to care for them himself. He refuses to admit he is intimidated by the prospect, but their leaves taunt him with their lush, glossy perfection.

His gym is closed, so on day two, he rearranges his living room. There is a yoga mat and a variety of weight training and resistance gear in a closet by the front door. Prior to his cleaning fit, they only gathered dust. Now they sit in the space he cleared out. 

He does technically have work, but all the companies he contracts with are also in chaos and isolation. Half of them haven’t properly digitized everything either, so there is only so much he can accomplish.

On day three, he has a video conference that starts an hour late due to ineptitude on the part of two separate people. It ends thirty minutes early after someone else disconnects and never returns. He works off the annoyance with some of the free weights. Then he downloads an app to identify his plants by picture, because he knows so little about them. He devotes the rest of the day to research, and he puts a few of the pots out on his balcony.

Day four brings another host of technical difficulties, a workout that is more a furious release of pent up energy than a healthy endeavor, and nearly choking on a bit of plastic from his microwave dinner. On day five, he purchases a Netflix account and succumbs to the siren song of competitive cooking shows and no-contact food delivery.

* * *

The whole city’s on lockdown. That shouldn’t change much for Jesse, but it’s one thing to choose to work from home and another to be forced into it. Suddenly he’s jonesing for coffee from the bakery down the block, and he wants nothing as much as he wants to take a walk in the park. He was thinking about getting a dog too. Now that a trip to the shelter is out of the picture for the foreseeable future, he’s haunted by the intrusive mental image of huge puppy eyes. They look suspiciously like those commercials begging for donations to that animal charity, the ones with the sad ballad playing. He knows they’re emotionally manipulative, but that doesn’t stop him from donating every time. He gets embarrassingly misty just _thinking_ about them.

Apart from the restlessness and occasional dog-related sniffles, his routine doesn’t change much. His deadlines are the same. His editor’s still a piece of work. He’s not writing much about travel given current events, but he sends in a pitch for the kind of feel-good listicle some people need right now, already imagining the bad headline they’re going to give it: _Ten Ways to Make Isolation Feel Like a Vacation_ or some shit. 

The biggest change is how close an eye he keeps on his damn toilet paper. The city-wide shortage makes not a lick of sense, but he supposes people get weird in a panic. 

He spends his days writing either in the tiny office he’s carved into a corner of his alleged dining area or out on the balcony. It’s a nice space he’s made, practically a room in its own right, with a few potted cacti and a wrought iron table and chairs he got secondhand. There’s a tiny space heater in the corner. He’s even got a rug. He’s been considering a hammock or something, but the balcony isn’t _that_ big. 

Up on the third floor, he doesn’t get much in the way of bugs, and the noise from the street isn’t too loud even when it’s busy. Right now, it’s eerie how quiet everything is. He almost misses all the angry car horns. 

A fat orange tabby is waiting for him when he gets out there today. Jesse sighs and pours his glass of water into the plastic bowl in the corner. He doesn’t know how she gets up here, or who her owner is, or even her real name. He called the cat Dave until Gabe made fun of him for not realizing she was a she. Just in case Gabe was fucking with him, Jesse chose a less gendered name this time around. Now she’s Pumpkin, to account for the color and shape.

Pumpkin doesn’t seem to care what he calls her. She does what she wants, and she leaves a mess of orange fur in her wake, and then she disappears until the next time. She doesn’t care that she’s not invited into his lap either. She insists no matter what he does, and she kneads until she’s comfortable, sharp claws pricking at his thighs. Jesse’s only allowed to get back to writing once she has finally settled. 

It’s only been a few minutes when there’s a scraping sound overhead. Claws dig furrows into his skin even through his jeans. Jesse yelps and Pumpkin bolts, potted cacti teetering precariously when she dives between them and the railing.

A gravelly voice drifts down while Jesse’s still rubbing his thigh. “Is everything okay?” 

With nobody to look at, Jesse stares at the ceiling of his balcony. “Nothin’ to worry about.” 

If there’s an answer, Jesse doesn’t hear it. 

### Week 2

“I am sending you a care package. Your skin looks terrible.” Amélie is as tactful as ever. 

Hanzo resists touching his face. “What happened to your eyebrows?” 

“I let my girlfriend notch them. It’s cute on her.” Amélie shrugs, entirely unperturbed by how ridiculous she looks. “How are you staying busy?”

Hanzo does not want to answer. Not when that answer is _drowning myself in reality television._ “Working out. Caring for my plants.” 

“Is that all?”

Defensively, Hanzo asks, “What are _you_ doing?”

“Makeup tutorials. I already have two hundred followers! I’m starting another series on how to shop your own closet.” She ticks each item off with her fingers. “Editing the videos takes time, of course. Reading, painting, drawing. I watched a free lecture on Degas yesterday. Sombra ordered some materials online so we can try making our own nail polishes. And dice! I’m not sure which of those came today, actually.”

Hanzo feels like a mess in comparison. He clings to the only edge he has. “So you’re one of the people clogging the mail system.”

“And you’re only clogging your pores. I can see them from here, you know. It is a miracle, considering the state of your camera.” 

“Why do I put up with you?” 

She laughs. “Because _I_ embrace how bitchy you can be.” A feminine voice calls from off camera. “Ah, time to make dice. Or nail polish. Watch your mail. I was serious about the care package.”

They say their goodbyes and he ends the call. He does not care to admit that Amélie was right to be concerned. He is doing almost nothing with his time. He has not even gotten dressed today. 

He thinks he should shower. Make something for lunch. Put on pants. Instead he searches Amélie’s Instagram until he finds a link to her video series, and he clicks play on the first one. From there, he finds another channel whose videos he clicks in a bored daze. This host is far more cheerful, her bright smile and uptalk much closer to his expectations of a beauty vlogger than Amélie’s flat voice and the perpetual sense that she has judged you and found you wanting.

When he finally frees himself from the video hole he has fallen into, he has no idea what time it is. He thinks he is hungry, but he has been sitting still so long that it’s hard to say. He orders dinner from the same Mediterranean restaurant he has already eaten from three times this week, consoling himself with the knowledge that he is nobly helping this local business stay afloat. 

He makes himself put on pants on the chance someone is in the hallway when his food arrives. A French-accented voice in his head forces him to wash his face, even if he cannot be bothered with the shower. He feels better for it, and after he checks the weather, he cracks the balcony door. It screeches when it opens, grating in its track instead of sliding smoothly, but the moving air feels good. 

It is not dark out, but it’s getting there. He can smell one of the neighbors cooking something divine that he cannot name, and a breeze brings the scent of either skunk or someone having a relaxing evening. He finds all of it strangely calming. Opening the door feels like reconnecting with the world beyond his apartment. 

It is such a pleasant experience that when his food arrives, he takes it out on the balcony with him. He can smell smoke again, but this is sweeter than the marijuana he smelled earlier. Someone is also playing guitar nearby, but it isn’t someone Hanzo can see. The melody is quiet and almost familiar, a mournful song he cannot quite place. For reasons he does not understand, he thinks of dogs with large, sad eyes. 

The next song is far more soothing. After dinner, he pours himself a drink, then he returns to the balcony until the music stops. 

* * *

If he’s going to have to spend all this time alone, at least the weather’s been nice enough that he can stay outdoors. Jesse spends a few hours every day writing and researching and sending the occasional email. He checks in on folks on social media. He reads the news, then he regrets reading the news. 

This thing doesn’t look like it’s going to blow over any time soon, so he starts hunting for ways to occupy his time. That’s when he drags the guitar case out from under his bed and tries to remember how to play. 

Getting it back into tune is a pain, but the skill returns more easily than he expected, just like riding a bike. His fingers still have the muscle memory to play, positioned damn near perfectly for each chord. They remember whole songs, for the most part. He has a few spots where he has to pause and hum to himself, working through how it should sound before he tries again, but he gets it right quicker than he thinks he should. He’s got some cobwebs to shake off, but he hasn’t lost the touch. 

He smokes and plays out on the balcony, strumming whatever song comes to mind. Springtime is just around the corner. Evenings are nice now and only getting nicer, although he still has to turn on the space heater a couple times. The smells and sounds of the neighborhood make it feel lively even if everyone’s got to keep their distance. 

Some nights, he hears the awful shriek of the neighbor’s door just above his head. It’s funny because Jesse’s never noticed much noise coming from upstairs. Sure, sometimes there’s the vacuum going or the odd thump, but most of the time they’re unobtrusive, especially compared to some of the rowdier places Jesse’s lived. Whoever’s up there is quiet, but Jesse can’t shake the sense they’re enjoying the music and the weather too. 

That screeching door, though. That’s got to stop. It throws Jesse off every time, and poor Pumpkin’s nerves can’t take it. It’s Friday and Jesse’s had a couple beers the next time he hears it, so he finally calls up, “You need to borrow some WD-40?” He realizes that whoever’s upstairs has no reason to believe Jesse’s talking to them. “I mean you, 405. For your door. I’m sure I’ve got some lyin’ around.”

The gravelly voice from the other night responds. “Is it that loud?” Then he drags the door along its track like it’s going to be magically different this time. 

Jesse winces, but he laughs too. “Yep. Pretty bad.” 

“I will see if I have any… what…”

“WD-40? Or some other kinda mechanical lubricant.”

“Of course.” The guy dismisses himself, only to return a moment later. “I don’t see anything like that.” 

Jesse holds off his judgment on that front. “I meant it. You can borrow some.” He tries to poke his head out over the balcony, but even craning his neck, he can’t see much. He definitely doesn’t trust himself to chuck the can up to him. If he gets the arc right, chances are he’s gonna hit his poor neighbor. If he gets it wrong, he’s launching a metal can over three stories to land God knows where. “I can… leave it outside my door, if you want?”

The neighbor says, “I have an idea. Wait a moment.” There’s something playful in his voice. Jesse catches himself smiling instinctively in response.

It takes a few minutes, but by the time Jesse retrieves the lubricant from his toolbox, a plastic basket is slowly dropping into his field of view. There’s a rubber resistance band looped around the handle. This guy must be bored to tears, but Jesse’s tickled by the whole thing.

“Want a beer?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for a response before he sticks one in with the can of lubricant, then he gives the band a tug and watches the basket rise back up. It’s no surprise to learn the neighbor needs Jesse to talk him through fixing the door, but the guy’s sort of funny, and Jesse learns he’s home too rarely to spend much time doing maintenance himself. He lives on his own too, and he hasn’t left his apartment in two weeks. Jesse can forgive a lot under those conditions.

When the basket comes back down, there’s another beer bottle nestled up against the WD-40. Japanese, to match the man’s accent. “Your taste in beer is terrible. Consider that payment for your aid.” It sounds like he’s smiling. Only teasing, then. 

“Ouch. I help you out, and you repay me by insultin’ my beer? That’s cold.” That earns a laugh and the most insincere apology Jesse’s heard in a long time. Jesse sighs like the guy’s really testing his patience. “Your beer’s alright, 405. Not good enough to insult a man over, but it’s alright.” He hears a snort above his head.

“Thank you for your help.”

### Week 3

Hanzo has run out of episodes of his favorite cooking show, and he is growing restless besides. The interaction with his downstairs neighbor was a nice distraction, but in general, if he is not working or on a brief social call, he still spends his time bored. He graduates from binging cooking shows to actually attempting to cook.

He has never been much of a chef, but there is no better time to learn. He watches several videos, surveys his very basic set of cooking supplies, and he chooses from the best of limited options. 

His first loaf of bread is hard as a rock. His vegetables come out either soggy or burnt. He would like to be proud of his perfect rice, but pressing the correct buttons on a rice cooker is one of the few skills he _does_ have. 

Tonight’s efforts are more promising, until he realizes his fatal mistake. He has already chopped everything before he notices he does not have enough oil. He is not sure he has enough containers to store all his ingredients, and the grocery delivery service he uses is already closed, operating under limited hours as they are. 

It is late enough in the evening. If 305 is going to be out on his balcony, now would be the usual time. The sliding door glides silently on its track as he makes up his mind. 

The sound of guitar greets him again, this time picking slowly through a song as if his neighbor is only just beginning to learn it. Hanzo feels utterly foolish as he realizes he still doesn’t know a name. “305?”

“Well, hello, stranger!” 

Hanzo assumed it was only because he was so starved for human interaction that he found his neighbor’s voice so appealing the other night, but like before, the sound seems to rumble up through the floor and curl up someplace warm inside him. Hanzo coughs. “I have— Would you happen to have some olive oil?”

“I don’t know,” he sing-songs. “You gonna insult it like you did my beer?”

“I don’t know. Does it also taste like lukewarm urine?”

305’s laugh sounds surprised, and it makes Hanzo feel strangely proud of himself. “Now what makes you think I’m gonna share with someone who’s bein’ mean to me?”

“I can say please, if you like. Or send you another beer.” 

There is not an immediate answer, which makes Hanzo wonder if he has crossed a line with his teasing. 305 calls out again soon enough, though. “Toss me that basket.” Hanzo does, and there is a tug on the line when it is ready. “Use whatever you need. I got more in the cupboard.”

When Hanzo retrieves the basket, there’s a half full bottle of olive oil inside. As promised, he sends a beer back down. He sends another a few minutes later when he asks to borrow some spices.

* * *

“I’m keepin’ busy, old man,” Jesse laughs into the receiver. Gabe grunts like he doesn’t believe it, so Jesse checks to see if he’s looking, then he flicks him off. 

Gabe and Jack live across the way. It wasn’t intentional that they ended up living so close, but it does keep life interesting. The old fogeys don’t have a balcony, but they have a window that faces his direction. Since shelter-in-place began, they like to hang out where they can see Jesse during their phone calls.

Jack elbows Gabe, then they both look somewhere _not_ at Jesse. Gabe clears his throat while Jack laughs. “What are y’all doing?” Jesse asks. 

“Have you met your neighbor? The one right above you?” Gabe asks.

“Hello?” 405 calls out.

“Gimme a sec,” Jesse says with a glance up. Back in the receiver, he lowers his voice and answers, “Sort of. Talked to him, but not face-to-face.”

“You haven’t seen him?”

“No. Why?”

Gabe says, “He’s _way_ out of your league,” at the same time as Jack says, “He’s hideous.” 

Both are fucking with him, but he doesn’t know _why._ “Don’t see why that’s any of my business either way. Or yours.” There’s not much else he can say with 405 standing right above him. Jesse makes sure his glare does most of the talking.

“Of course not,” Jack says.

“In no way will we be making popcorn and watching your every move.” Gabe smiles so big and false that Jesse can see his teeth from across the street.

“There’s nothin’ to watch.”

“He looks like he models for fitness magazines.”

“He’s missing half his face.”

Jesse’s not even sure which of them said what this time, but he is _not_ interested in playing their game. “Y’all are both assholes. I’m hangin’ up.” He does exactly that before he has to hear any more from them. No telling when this whole ordeal is going to end, and the boredom’s already starting to get to everyone in weird ways. He sucks in a deep breath, then he shouts at the ceiling. “You still there?”

“Yes. I have something for you.” 405 sounds nervous. 

Jesse smiles so his voice will show it and it will help 405 relax, _not_ for any other reason, like the kind someone might come up with if they’re nosy old men with nothing better to do. “You got me a present?” 

There’s a laugh, then the basket starts to come into view. Jesse does his best not to think about Gabe and Jack still watching from their window. He stares at the resistance band 405’s still using as a rope, and completely without his consent, that comment about him looking like a fitness model pops back into his head. 

“It isn’t much.” It’s a far cry from his usual confident teasing. It’s almost bashful. Jesse doesn’t know what to make of it. “But since you’ve shared so many ingredients, I thought you should have some of the end result.”

Inside the basket are several lumps secured in plastic wrap. Further inspection shows that one looks like a hunk of bread, and the others are a trio of muffins. Jesse grins. “You can borrow whatever you need, if that means you’re gonna feed me.”

### Week 4

Hanzo does not know what came over him that first time, pushing food on his neighbor like that. Pride and excitement, at the very least. He finally made something successful, and he wanted to share the accomplishment. In hindsight, it now feels very foolish, no matter how grateful 305 sounded about it at the time.

It happens again, though. It is very difficult to find recipes for a single diner, even accounting for leftovers. If Hanzo stops cooking, he will have to find something else to do, so the only option is to send 305 the extras — or the extras that do not end up in the trash. Hanzo still makes mistakes that render the food inedible, although most things this week have ranged from passable to quite good. 

That is, of course, until he nearly catches his steamer basket on fire. As soon as he realizes what the burning smell is, he turns off the stove and dumps the whole basket, food and all, into the sink. He runs water over the smoking hunk of scorched bamboo, flinching away from the steam that rolls up to join the smoke.

When the alarm begins to screech, he throws open the balcony door and the window in his bedroom. He nearly breaks his neck scrambling onto a chair to force the alarm to stop. Even now that the smoke is clearing, the smell lingers and his eyes burn. 

Out on the balcony, he breathes in a huge lungful of clean air, then he coughs it all back out. 

“You doin’ alright up there?” 

Hanzo flushes and tries to hide his presence, but another cough gives him away. “Great,” he croaks.

“I heard the alarm. What happened?”

“I may have had a… minor mishap with my dinner.”

“How bad?”

“I’m afraid to look.”

That earns a hearty laugh that only makes Hanzo’s cheeks burn hotter. “Aw, don’t worry. We’ve all been there.” The way he says it makes Hanzo glance around, worried 305 can _see_ his reaction somehow. 

After he has taken a few more calming breaths, Hanzo manages to find it funny too. “I suppose it’s a good excuse to order in again.”

 _“Or_ I could feed you.”

“I have borrowed too much—”

“We’re not keepin’ score, man. We’re livin’ in a crisis, and it’s the neighborly thing to do.” Hanzo pulls an uncertain face then resists the urge to look around again when 305 responds once more as if he knows what Hanzo is thinking. “Besides, there’s way too much for me to eat alone. Some stuff I just can’t make unless it’s enough to feed an army.”

Hanzo gives in after that. At 305’s prompting, he lowers the basket. When it comes back up, there is a large plastic tub and a half moon of yellow bread. 305 was not exaggerating; it is an absurd amount of food for a single person’s dinner. Hanzo sends back two beers, and he opens the last bottle for himself. They eat on their respective balconies, exchanging smalltalk. 305 is a much better cook than Hanzo is, but it is hard to put any energy into envy or embarrassment while he is inhaling the spicy chili and crumbly cornbread.

* * *

Jesse usually doesn’t notice 405 until the evening, when they both tend to step outside to relax. Barring the other night’s smoke alarm fiasco, their run-ins are more out of a shared habit than anything else. He’s a quiet guy, even when they’re interacting. So it’s a real shock — to him and to poor Pumpkin, who scrambles away and nearly pricks herself on a cactus — to hear him at ten in the morning, going full steam with a string of _loud_ Japanese. His voice rises nearly to a shout then drops into a growl that does something to Jesse’s stomach he doesn’t feel like thinking too hard about. 405 barks out a laugh, spits a few more words, then falls silent long enough that Jesse thinks it’s safe again. 

It’s not his business, and it’s not like he knows what 405 said. He’s definitely going to pretend this never happened. Then a curl of smoke rises from the cigar propped on Jesse’s ashtray, and it winds over the balcony railing and upward. So much for stealth. 

“305?” He sounds cautious. Jesse has enough of a feel for his personality now that he can picture someone wincing and almost does the same in sympathy. 

Jesse clears his throat. “Yeah?”

“I assume you heard that. I apologize.”

“Nothin’ to worry about.” 

“It was only… My brother can be a pain.” 405 blurts it out, then there’s an awkward silence. Jesse stares at Pumpkin, who looks like she’s wondering how to investigate the voice overhead. Stiffly, 405 starts again. “You didn’t ask, I’m—”

“It’s alright, family’s like that.” Jesse’s gut says the guy’s gearing up to apologize again, so he cuts him off. “How many siblings you got?”

“Just the one. And you?”

“None at all. Least not that I know of. Might be my dad left a bunch of ’em after my parents split.” The silence above him is potent. “It’s not awkward. It was a _long_ time ago.”

“Ah. How long?” 

“Thirty-six years ago.” 

This is how they get around to exchanging ages — 405 is thirty-eight to Jesse’s thirty-seven — and the kind of family histories that people can only share once they’ve broken the seal on the messy parts. He learns 405’s brother is only starting to get his life together now, at thirty-five, and that 405 vacillates wildly between trying to support these efforts and wanting to wring his neck, which sounds like roughly half the siblings Jesse’s met. 405 has parents that sound nothing at all like Jesse’s family, but he gets on well with his mother; Jesse approves, having been an unabashed mama’s boy his whole life. 

Jesse shares a few stories about her. He likes the way 405’s rough laugh sounds, so then he shares some adolescent misadventures: that time he broke his arm trying to hop a privacy fence to go swimming in someone’s pool, the time he got caught shoplifting oregano because Lizzie convinced him they could smoke it. He skips past some of the more serious deviance, but he gets the impression his neighbor might find some of those amusing as well. Maybe he’ll tell him some other time. 

By the time 405 excuses himself to take a work call, it's nearing one o’clock.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, this was going to be two parts, but now uh, maybe three? RIP me.

###  #

###  Week 5

Hanzo sits on the floor of his living room surrounded by packages. They spent the previous couple of days outside his door. By the time one would be properly disinfected to bring inside, another would arrive. He has given up on that now, too overwhelmed by the pile-up and too eager for his own purchase to bother with the disinfectant ritual again.

Amélie’s gift is expected: more expensive skincare products that he mostly will not use, although he might at least try the moisturizer and the beard oil. He has no idea what to send in return, but she has a meticulously maintained wishlist that will be easy enough to select from. The box from Genji contains three books his brother borrowed so long ago that Hanzo nearly forgot them. All are far more worn than they would be in Hanzo’s care, spines cracked and creaking and pages bent at the corners. There is also a bag of coffee beans from Hanzo’s favorite local café, most likely Genji’s way of acknowledging the state of the books. Hanzo knows his brother, and he knows not to expect a real apology. 

There is a small box from his mother. It is another book — a  _ new  _ book, a biography of some long-dead general — and a very long letter detailing her own isolation. She is keeping busy, which does not surprise him. The postscript says to continue watching his mail, as his parents have purchased a weekly home cooking box to encourage his new hobby, as well as some sort of wine club membership. Hanzo does not usually drink wine. His parents do, however, especially his father. This is typical: his mother tries to glean his interests and support them, while his father only assumes Hanzo will enjoy the same things he does.

Mei’s package is next. It bears a sticker that says it was delivered by bicycle courier. Hanzo did not know that was a service that even existed in this city, but it is fitting. He would also bet that the box is reused, and he determines that whatever he gives her in return, he will make sure to send it in the same fashion.

There are two tins of loose leaf tea, a package of cookies, and a potted succulent from her own garden. The note says that Mei remembers their last conversation and hopes he can keep this plant alive. She has also attached several handwritten recipe cards, including one for the cookies, since she also knows he has begun cooking. He will have to put in some effort to decide how to repay her thoughtfulness. She is the only  _ nice  _ friend he has. 

Well, he supposes 305 is nice, but considering that Hanzo does not even know his name, he is not sure he can call them friends. This thought makes his other package seem quite foolish; Hanzo really does not know what has gotten into him lately. He opens the box anyway, spreads the materials out in front of him, and hits play on one of the videos he has bookmarked. 

* * *

Jesse has just ended a call with Fareeha when he hears the ruckus overhead. He can see Jack standing in his window with a cup of coffee, staring up at 405’s balcony. 

“What’re you up to, partner?” 

There’s a pause. “It is a surprise.”

Jesse’s eyebrows shoot up, and he catches himself smiling. “A surprise? For who?”

“For us, I suppose?” 405 coughs and clears his throat. “I will need your help in a moment, if you are available.”

“Sure,” Jesse says, uncertain. He doesn’t have much time for confusion, though, because soon enough the basket’s dropping into his field of view. Except this time, it’s a sturdy metal bucket, padded and lined with fabric inside. The resistance band is gone, replaced by a thick nylon rope. Inside there’s more of the rope lying in a coil, as well as a pulley attached to a clamp. Holy shit. “How bored are you?” Jesse asks with a laugh. 

It’s echoed by a self-conscious chuckle above him. “More bored than I have ever been.” There’s a beat. “I hope you do not mind.”

“Oh no, it’s kinda genius. You want me to hook up my end, right?” 405 confirms it, so Jesse gets to work, pulling the line straight so he can align the whole thing, then screwing the clamp tightly to the balcony railing. It takes some finagling, but he gets the rope looped around the pulley wheel, ties the end just above the bucket, then hangs onto the coiled excess. Before long, there are two lengths of rope pulled tight between their twin pulleys, and 405 gathers up the slack, does something up top, then announces that it is finished. 

They test it a few times, sending the bucket up and down to each other. On the final pass, the bucket returns with one of Jesse’s food containers, sparkling clean, and a small package of cookies. He can’t get rid of the wide grin on his face, even when he glances across to catch both Gabe and Jack staring at him. 

Sure enough, Jesse gets a text from Jack a moment later.  _ Isn’t that the cutest darn thing? _

Jesse responds with a middle finger, and he tries to ignore how warm his face feels. This is just some way to fend off quarantine madness, nothing more or less than that.

“Do you take requests?” 405 asks, breaking Jesse’s miniature spiral.

“For what?”

“The songs you play.”

“Is this your way of teasin’ me about my ‘bad taste’ again?”

405 laughs. “No, but I could tease more if you wanted me to.”

Jesse doesn’t care to think about why  _ that  _ makes his face feel hot too. The not-thinking-about-it does not get easier when his phone vibrates. It’s from Gabe this time, and it’s a picture taken from the window. In it, Jesse’s leaned back in his chair, feet almost touching the railing of the balcony, and he’s looking up. Above him, 405 — with a clown emoji hiding his face — is leaning on his elbows on the railing, far enough out that Jesse might be able to see him if he got up to look right now. Except that Jesse won’t do that, because that’s  _ exactly  _ what Gabe and Jack want him to do.

He tries to study the picture without appearing to do so, but it’s not like he’s getting any real clues. 405’s wearing a loose hoodie, and he’s leaned over, so there’s no hint about how he’s built. Thanks to the stupid sticker, Jesse can’t even tell if he’s leaning to look down or if he’s just relaxing like that. It’s precisely enough info to taunt Jesse while revealing almost nothing. 

He stubbornly deletes the picture, scowling in the direction of some nosy old men.

###  Week 6

The weather changes, a sudden drop in temperature followed by a downpour that Hanzo is sure lasts a hundred years. Being trapped in his apartment is bad enough without the weather stealing his single escape from him. He is in a foul mood, and he misses the sound of 305’s guitar. It is an embarrassing thought, but his downstairs neighbor is the closest to face-to-face company he has had in over a month now. He has become accustomed to some routine interaction, and it is perfectly reasonable to be distraught when it is suddenly cut off.

They have grown closer since the pulley installation. Hanzo already learned 305’s age — close to his own — and perhaps too many details about his relationship with his mother. Now he knows his neighbor is friends with a couple who live across the street, because he mentioned that they like to pry into his affairs. He knows 305 was a troublemaker in his youth, the mostly harmless variety who seemed to delight in deviance for no better reason than that he  _ could.  _ It reminds him of Genji; it is something Hanzo has always envied. This quality appears now in a somewhat mischievous, and occasionally darker than expected, sense of humor, and perhaps also explains why he has been so willing to entertain Hanzo’s intrusions. 

There are smaller details too. 305 worked from home before now. He wants a dog. He dislikes, but politely tolerates, the electronic music occasionally carried on the breeze from somewhere nearby. He has a beard, because Hanzo joked about the beard oil Amélie gifted him only for 305 to express interest. It was the first non-ingestible item to take a ride in their bucket.

Hanzo is still self-conscious about the innovation, but 305 has played along since the beginning, and he seems genuinely delighted by the system they have devised. It does not wholly erase Hanzo’s minor shame over how excited he was to have thought of it, but 305’s enthusiasm certainly alleviates it to some degree. If Hanzo is also excited to talk to 305 without some silly novelty, that is nobody’s business but his own.

During the storms, he reads and tries his hand at some of the recipes Mei sent him. He works out. He repots a pothos that is somehow both overgrown  _ and  _ shriveling. He catches up on Amélie’s videos, amazed that someone who is so unfriendly has such a massive following in six short weeks. 

He binges another terrible reality competition show, this time without even the paltry justification that he is interested in learning something from it. No, this one is a dating competition. It is pointless and absurd, and now that he has begun it, he cannot look away. If Jacqueline does not win after her performance in the obstacle course, he might throw a genuine fit. 

Jacqueline does not win. He spends several hours furious and embarrassed about it.

By the time there is a break in all the rain, Hanzo does not care that his balcony is still wet. He dashes out there at the first opportunity to relish the fresh air. Or this is his intention. The moment the door is open, there is a movement in his peripheral vision.

A shockingly round orange cat huddles in the corner of his balcony, sitting in one of the few spots not soaked by the rain. Its fur sticks up oddly in places where it is damp. Hanzo is wondering what to do about it when he catches the smell wafting up from below: it is 305’s smoke. He should not be surprised to know that his neighbor took the first chance to sneak outside. This fact should not make his heart beat faster either. Isolation is driving him slowly insane.

He cannot quite deny that he is excited to finally talk to another person — any person, of course — though. “Do you have a cat?” he calls down.

“Nope!” 305 laughs. “Let me guess: orange, nosy, fat. Got a notched ear.”

“Yes, actually.”

“That’s Pumpkin. No idea how she gets around, but she’s friendly.”

Hanzo crouches and holds out a hand. Her pink nose tickles when she sniffs at him. “She?” he asks. “I thought orange cats were all male.”

305 laughs again. “That’s what  _ I  _ thought! God. Vindication. I’m gonna tell Gabe where he can stick it.” Hanzo is not sure what half of that means. “But no, she’s a she. As far as we know, anyway. Not like anybody can ask her.” Hanzo snorts, and Pumpkin startles. She comes right back, though, butting her head against his hand now that she has decided he is no threat. Now that he has someone to talk to, he finds he does not know what to say. 305 rescues him from his own scrambled brain when he asks, “How’d that storm treat you?”

“I may have briefly lost my mind.”

“How’s that?” Hanzo is still considering whether he should admit to his shameful binge-watching when 305 offers, “I watched so much bad TV.”

“How bad?”

“Uh, like  _ Meet Your Match  _ bad.”

“Shameful,” Hanzo teases, following a flood of relief. “Did you watch the whole season?”

“No. Finally managed to quit after my favorite got sent home. Those immunity flowers are bullshit if you ask me.”

It might be the stupidest thing to ever get Hanzo’s heart pounding. “Jacqueline deserved better.”

305’s surprised laugh is the nicest sound Hanzo has heard in four days. “She’s too good for him!” 

Before they can continue, there is a shout from below. Hanzo peers over the railing. Off to his right, down on the third floor, a pair of people are visible on the balcony nearest 305’s. 

“Yo, cowboy!” shouts a dark-skinned young man. 

The woman beside him appears even younger. There’s a playful musical quality to the way she calls out, “Jesse.” Hanzo feels his skin prickle as though he has learned something very illicit. “Settle something for us.”

“Uh, sure?”

“Do cats sweat?” the man asks, looking like he already knows the answer and is only awaiting confirmation. She has her arms crossed.

“Pretty sure they don’t. What do you think, 405?” Jesse — maybe — sounds like he is smiling.

“Their paws sweat. Their bodies do not.”

The two down in 304 stare at each other. She glares, and it only deepens as his lips twitch. “I  _ told  _ you,” she hisses. “Why is Hea wet?”

“Honestly? Not sure I want to know,” says the man.

Maybe-Jesse asks, “Did she get outside?”

“She better not have!” 

“She  _ didn’t!”  _ He is laughing, but she continues to glare, and they disappear back into the apartment, where their bickering — and his laugh — can still be heard until the door slides fully shut behind them.

Hanzo spends a few minutes more on his balcony, making small talk with 305. He learns the neighbors are Hana and Lúcio, an internet-famous gamer and a musician, respectively. It confirms that the “Jesse” in question is 305 himself. The rain begins again shortly after, which leaves Hanzo with little choice but to go back inside and search his social media sites for the various Jesses and Jessies and Jessis in his friends-of-friends-of-friends’ networks.

His search turns up several viable options. Naturally there are a great many Jesses and Jessies — and far fewer Jessis, none of whom are bearded men — in a city of this size, even when he narrows it down by age. He almost burns dinner again while he is busy mentally sorting those who have facial hair from those who do not. More than a handful of the candidates remaining range from acceptable to outright handsome. There is one in particular, only two degrees of separation from Hanzo himself. He is a friend of both Amélie’s girlfriend and the woman Mei has a crush on. He might also fit the “cowboy” descriptor. It is hard to determine for sure, as he only has three public pictures. 

Hanzo clicks through each of the pictures in a rotation, willing to forgive the trio of plaid shirts for the sake of his nice eyes, which are an indeterminate shade but which have crow’s feet crinkling pleasantly at the corners. His brown hair looks very soft, and his wide mouth curves in a way that hints at 305’s particular brand of mischief. He is definitely one of the ones who falls into the “outright handsome” category. Hanzo would not mind getting to meet this man even if he is not the downstairs neighbor. It is this realization that causes him to snap his laptop shut and decide he needs to pick up another hobby.

* * *

It seems like the rain’s finally cleared out for good. Jesse pulls on the rope until he can seize the bucket and dump rainwater out. Several inches of water splash to the pavement far below, and maybe some hits the balcony beneath him too. His cacti are hardy, but he checks for standing water before he decides they’re all in good enough shape. 

His phone rings in his pocket, and he picks up with a wave at the window across the way. “What do you want, old man?” 

From here, Jesse can see Gabe holding a Halloween mug, orange and covered in tiny bats. He knows from visiting that it’s got a chip in it. In lieu of a real answer, Gabe takes an obnoxiously noisy slurp of his drink. 

“Are you talking to me?” 405 calls down. This explains Gabe’s bullshit, at least. 

“Sorry, no. There’s a senior citizen on the line who don’t know how to mind his own business.”

Gabe slurps again. 405 only makes a thoughtful sound, then the bucket starts to rise. Without thinking, Jesse peers out over the edge, but all he can see is a pair of hands. That doesn’t tell him much, but it does make Gabe laugh smugly. “Still no idea what he looks like, huh?”

“This again?” Jesse mutters. Then he grins. “Hey, neighbor. You got an admirer.”

405 snorts. “Is this a joke?”

“Look across from you and down a floor.”

“He’s never gonna date you if he gets a good look at me,” Gabe says. He’s got to say it through his teeth though, because he’s faking a smile and waving up at 405. That’s good enough for Jesse. 

“Why should I care?” Jesse drops his volume as low as he can. “You called him Quasimodo last week. You tellin’ me that was a lie?”

“That was Jack.”

“Hey, neighbor,” Jesse says more loudly. “My friend wants to know how much you can bench.” 

“310.” The answer is automatic, and the guy didn’t even act like it was a weird question to ask.

Gabe makes a thoughtful sound; Jesse can picture his eyebrows rising. “He could bench press you and that giant cat you like without breaking a sweat.” Jesse flushes. “He’s not that tall. Doesn’t look like he’s lying either. I’m impressed. Tell him to take off his shirt.” He figures that settles for good why Gabe and Jack have been fucking with him, and his neighbor looking like he ought to be ringing bells at Notre Dame ain’t it. 

“Absolutely not.”

“What?” 405 asks. 

Jesse turns his head up and away from the phone. “He says he’s impressed. I won’t dignify the rest by repeatin’ it.” 

“Now I definitely must know.” The smile he can hear in that answer makes it a lot harder to keep glaring at Gabe. 

“He’s a happily married man. Don’t let it go to your head. But he said he wants to see you shirtless.”

“Then tell him I am flattered, but I’ll be leaving my shirt on.” There’s a beat before he adds, “Unless his husband says it is alright.” 

Gabe barely gets his mouth away from the receiver before he shouts, “Jack, get your ass in here.” 

405 acted like it wasn’t weird to get asked how much he lifts. He definitely didn’t take the stupid shirtless comments like he’s not used to getting compliments. He didn’t seem put out by getting ogled or hearing it from a man either. Jesse’s not sure how to feel about the places his mind’s trying to go. “If my neighbors are done usin’ me as a proxy to flirt, I  _ do  _ have shit to do today,” he grumbles. 

Gabe lets him off the phone shortly after, but 405 is still outside. He drops the bucket back down to Jesse’s floor. The lining has been changed, so it is dry again. Inside is a container of soup, another of noodles, another full of some kind of rice dish, a packet of cookies, and half a loaf of bread. 

“Been keepin’ busy?” he asks as he begins to unload the goods.

“I did not think things could get worse. I clearly took the balcony for granted.”

“So what, you just cooked for four straight days?”

“Was it only four?” 405 laughs, and Jesse can’t help but echo him. “But no. I looked into other hobbies.” 

“Like?”

“I used to draw when I was a boy. I have… tried. They are not very good, but it did pass the time.”

“Mm, doubt that! You said you just started cookin’, and you got good at that pretty quick.” Jesse is polite enough not to mention his relief that most of the things 405 sends are edible now. “I'm sure you’ll pick it back up fast, and you’re probably already better than you think you are.”

“That is kind of you, J— um, Jesse. That is your name, right?”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“The neighbors with the cat, the other day.”

“Ah. Yeah, that’s me. You got me at a disadvantage now.”

“It’s Hanzo.” 

“Nice to meet you, Hanzo.” Jesse tries out the name and finds he likes the sound of it and the feel of it in his mouth. 

###  Week 7

Now that they have exchanged names, the rest comes even more easily than before. He learns that Jesse is a writer, that he loves spicy food and apple pie, that he will try just about anything as long as it doesn’t have either mushrooms or pineapple, and that despite his bland taste in beer, his taste in whiskey is reasonably good. Some things, however, are harder to discern, even with the aforementioned whiskey smoothing the way. 

“Have you always been a writer?” Hanzo asks. 

“For a livin’? No.”

“What did you do before that?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he says. Hanzo is embarrassed to admit, even to himself, that he pictures the crooked grin on that cowboy who’s a friend of a friend of Mei’s. 

“You’ve always wanted to say that, haven’t you?”

Jesse’s chuckle is dark and low enough Hanzo thinks he feels it more than he hears it. The back of his neck grows hot. “You bet your ass I have. It’s sorta true anyway.” 

Hanzo thinks about Jesse living alone in this neighborhood on a freelancer’s pay, and it strikes him as preposterous, although he supposes that if Jesse writes under a pseudonym, there is always the chance he is more well-established than Hanzo believes. Nothing he has said about his mother suggests his family is one of substantial wealth. It is most likely that there is money coming from somewhere else — if not a second job, then a previous one. Hanzo thinks about the neighbors across the way. Jesse says he has known them for years, and both of them have that look about them that Hanzo has come to associate with American armed forces. However absurd the phrasing, he finds he believes Jesse’s claim not to be able to tell him. “Military,” Hanzo guesses aloud. “And the rest would require security clearance to know.”

“Got it in one.” Jesse plucks idly at the strings of his guitar.

“You must have been very good at this thing, if you cannot discuss it.”

“Or very stupid for agreein’ to it,” Jesse says cheerfully. 

“I doubt that. You strike me as very clever.” 

“You’re one of the only people who thinks so.”

“I am right more often than most.”

Jesse’s laugh, as always, makes Hanzo feel disproportionately pleased. “Bet you are. Still don’t hear that often.” 

“What do you hear, then? The nice things, I mean.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Hanzo freezes. He heard the tone of his own voice. He felt the pull of his facial muscles into a sly smile too. He is trying to flirt with his neighbor, whose face he has never seen — or if he has seen, it is because he went prying — and whose identity and preferences he does not know. Worse, he isn’t doing it entirely on purpose. 

Jesse must sense it too, because he pauses. Anxiety begins to creep in as Hanzo imagines gears turning in Jesse’s head. “Most of those answers ain’t fit to share where other folks might hear,” he says after a moment. His voice is pitched lower; it is somehow rougher and more playful at once. 

Hanzo sinks further into his seat, taking a slow sip of his drink to buy himself a moment. “But you would tell me if we were truly in private?”

He may only imagine the pause this time. “Keep sharin’ your alcohol and you might get it outta me.” 

Hanzo has no idea whether Jesse is flirting back or blowing him off. He tells himself he is not disappointed, but given the caginess of the answer, he thinks it is likely time to change the subject. 

* * *

Jesse emails his editor. He likes a picture Ana took of the small courtyard behind her building. He writes a stupid joke on Fareeha’s update on her motorcycle repair project. He squints in confusion at Sombra’s cryptic post featuring neon dice held in a hand tipped with equally neon nails. He scrolls through the actual news and hates ninety percent of the task. 

He tries to distract himself in order to resist temptation — he really does — but he writes for a reason. He likes research. He’s  _ good  _ at it. Combined with the boredom, it’s too much to handle responsibly. 

It’s a big city. He also knows Hanzo’s age and profession in a very vague, general sense. Research tells him the name is a bit old-fashioned, which explains why there really aren’t that many of them even in a city this size. 

Unfortunately, the only public profile that fits is pretty sparse and only exists on a professional networking site with no hint of a real personality. The main picture is straight on, some bland corporate headshot specifically for this sort of purpose. It doesn’t say much about the guy in the suit. He might be good-looking in a tightly wound sort of way. Hard to picture him baking muffins or flirting with the neighbors or bench pressing nearly one-and-a-half Jesses. 

He startles when he hears a sound overhead, and he closes the tab with a sharp stab of inexplicable guilt. 

“Jesse?”

“I’m here.”  _ Doing nothing weird, _ he tries to convey silently, unsure whether the guilt came through in his voice or not.

“May I have one of your... whatever it is you smoke?”

Jesse almost cracks a joke, but something about Hanzo’s tone keeps it at bay. Instead he pulls the bucket down to his level and sends it back up with a cigar and his lighter. “Rough day?”

“Rough meeting. We have been trapped inside for nearly two months, and people still do not know how to video chat.” There’s a pause as he presumably lights up, then the bucket comes back down with Jesse's lighter in it. “There is always some malfunction or poor connection or someone  _ breathing _ into the microphone.”

Jesse doesn’t know what Hanzo does for a living, only that he is “in finance,” which could mean a whole lot of things. Things like having a complete void where an online personality ought to be. “Workin’ from home is a bitch,” Jesse agrees, figuring that’s the safest bet.

“I don’t know how you have done this for so long.”

“Well, I don’t video conference, for one. Emails, maybe a phone call here and there, all of it one-on-one. Face-to-face talks are for friends and family only.”

“Very wise.” He sounds amused. 

“Man’s gotta have rules.” 

“Hm. What other rules do you have?” 

The teasing tone is back, accompanied by the pleasant roughness of his voice. It’s hard to convince himself Hanzo’s not flirting. It’s also hard to have any faith in the hunch when there is only a voice to go by. Jesse would love to see some clues right about now. Would Hanzo smile? He certainly sounds like he’s smiling whenever he gets that teasing lilt. Would he lean in and touch, or would he keep his distance, make Jesse come to him? 

Hanzo asked about his rules.  _ Don’t shit where you sleep _ comes to mind, and Jesse breathes out harder than he means to. He searches for any answer that redirects the conversation, and he thinks about that picture, the boring, corporate blank slate. “Don’t trust anybody who’s got a problem with tattoos.”

Hanzo laughs above him, blithely unaware of Jesse’s distress. “Does this mean you have one?”

“Got a couple. You?”

“Only one, but I believe it’s enough to prove my trustworthiness.” He sounds way too amused, like he’s smugly keeping some kind of secret about it. 

Jesse almost resents how curious it makes him. “It’s a butterfly tramp stamp you got on your eighteenth birthday, isn’t it?” 

“How did you know?”

“I’m naturally gifted.”

“I do not doubt that.” Hanzo’s voice is harder to read. It could be flirting. It could be a polite way of having nothing else to add. Jesse doesn’t get to pry further, because Hanzo’s phone begins to ring. With a quick thanks, Hanzo disappears back into his apartment, leaving Jesse alone with the silly notions in his head. 

He opens a new tab, orders another round of bath bombs delivered to Ana and Angela, then succumbs to temptation once more and goes digging for other Hanzos. The corporate guy might still be the one, but there’s also a locked profile of someone who is friends with some loose acquaintances. It’s easy to imagine Hanzo’s borderline rude teasing helping him get on well with Sombra’s mean girlfriend. He’s never put much thought into what Amélie’s friends might be like, but that one makes a weird amount of sense to him. Even if it’s him, though, there’s no way to confirm what he looks like; the single public picture is a close-up of a blue echeveria. 

Jesse toys with the idea of sending a friend request, just to see what will happen. If the guy’s a stranger, it won’t matter. Just another case of mistaken identity. Jesse’s not sure what Hanzo would do if it’s really him, though. Maybe it’s too weird.

He glances at the rope with the bucket, thinks about their shared food, Hanzo’s flirting and song requests, the stories they’ve passed back and forth, and the pulley system itself. Maybe they’ve already bypassed  _ weird,  _ but he still can’t quite bring himself to click the single button required to sate his curiosity. He closes the tab and tries to focus on work again.


End file.
